I found my history in the tiny bones of a hummingbird, its beating heart that could fill a thimble with all its blood in seconds, its frantic wings, its soft beak and subtle feet. I found the tongue, its lathed shape, its tucked flesh, and rubbed it between my fingers until it settled like clay, never again to fly sideways or beat its wings faster than a prayer can leave lips. And for that, I offer a prayer: hummingbird, fly into my mouth and lay your eggshell head under my tongue. Let me turn you over—brain case, eye socket—the needle of bone and death against my teeth. I will hold your skull still in my mouth to weigh it, to weigh myself, and remember why you taste like sugar.